by Tessa Dawn
More ominous.
The dragon drew back like an ocean wave retreating from a sandy shoreline, and then his neck craned forward in a creepy, meandering motion. His massive head, festooned with haunting, almond-shaped eyes, traversed the expanse of the table and came to rest, eye to eye, with Jordan. Her knees knocked together, but she was too hypnotized, too beguiled, too terrified to even blink.
The dragon’s scaly nose wrinkled as he sniffed her, and his eyes grew disturbingly narrow, blazing with sapphire flames in their depths, as he appeared to search her soul, much like Zane had done the first night she had met him.
Don’t flinch; don’t flinch; don’t flinch, she told herself, but despite her best efforts at self-control, Jordan drew back her head and cast her gaze to the side, unable to meet his eyes.
Lord Saphyrius regarded her circumspectly, for what felt like a thousand years, and then he simply meandered backward—recalling his dragon and reclaiming his mostly human form—and nodded his regal head. “Welcome to the Sapphire Lair, my daughter”—he practically purred the words—“I am pleased that you are home.”
Zane exhaled an audible sigh of relief, and that worried Jordan even more.
What the heck had just happened, and what had Zane expected?
She swallowed her angst and searched Zane’s expression for some sort of direction: Was she supposed to remain quiet…or respond?
Zane inclined his head, and she took it to mean: Answer him.
“Thank you,” she said in a whisper, though she didn’t really mean it.
“Milord,” Zane prompted softly.
Jordan frowned. And then she got it. “Thank you, milord,” she repeated.
Lord Saphyrius clasped both ethereal hands behind his back and smiled, a warm, tender acknowledgment. And then he turned his attention to Zane. “Who will you be taking with you through the portal?” he asked, his voice, now, matter-of-fact.
“Axeviathon,” Zane answered. He didn’t appear to be afraid.
The lord nodded, demonstrating his approval, and then—just like that—his essence withdrew from the room. He swirled upward and inward, and the dragon vanished.
Jordan plopped down in her seat and fought to catch her breath. After several pregnant moments had passed, she let out a tormented groan. “Does he do that often?”
Zane regarded her…strangely, like he’d never seen her before; and in that odd, cryptic moment, his golden pupils were filled with such raw, unfettered possession, Jordan almost jumped up and ran.
“Not that often,” he said huskily. “Are you okay?”
Jordan winced as she thought about his words: Was she okay?
She was lost.
She was entrapped.
And she was reeling from shock.
No, she was definitely not okay.
She blinked back the moisture of a pressing tear. “Will I ever be okay again?”
f
The words continued to echo in Zane’s mind as he ushered Jordan out of the lair, stepped onto the porch, and stood next to Axe, preparing to open the portal.
Will I ever be okay again?
He didn’t know how to answer that question: not when she’d asked it, and certainly, not now.
Centuries of dragyri had claimed their dragyras, and in the end, the race had always gone on. The women found their place in a strange new world, and the males adapted to the presence of the women. The dragon lords continued to rule, commanding the lot of them, together, and through it all, more sons—more mercenaries—were born.
The cycle seemed as old as time, certainly as old as the Dragyr, and it was all Zane had ever known. But now, as he felt his dragyra’s alarm, he was beginning to doubt the entire paradigm.
The responsibility he felt—the overwhelming weight on his shoulders—was so enormous: Jordan’s heart, her sanity…her sense of well-being; all of it was in his carnal hands, and he had no idea how to teach her.
How to reach her.
How to love her.
How to interpret her perception of right versus wrong from her curious, human perspective.
He only knew that he cared more deeply than he had anticipated—he didn’t expect to feel this much, this soon—and the entire situation made him feel off-balance.
Levi stepped out on the porch, providing a much-needed distraction. He said something to Axe in Dragonese, to which Axe merely grunted in reply, and it reminded Zane of some unfinished business: He still had a question for the youngest member of the Sapphire Lair.
Levi—he pushed the telepathic call into the dragyri’s mind on a private bandwidth—I have a question for you. Act natural.
Levi leaned against one of the blue-and-white stone pillars and crossed his arms over his chest, looking out into the distance like he didn’t have a care in the world. Shoot, he said.
Yesterday, while I was at the temple, you escorted Jordan to the library, correct?
Correct, Levi said.
Did she use the copy machine before she left—did she photocopy any pages from a book?
Levi paused for a couple of seconds, clearly thinking it over. No, he finally muttered.
Zane sighed. Are you absolutely certain?
Yes, brother. I kept a careful eye on her the entire time, mostly out of duty and instinct—I knew she was nervous, and I was trying to make her feel more comfortable. I saw everything she did.
Zane resisted the impulse to nod. Very well. Thank you. He closed the communication and turned to Axe. “Ready, brother?”
Axe placed his hand on his amulet and shifted his attention to Jordan. “Ready when she is.”
Zane extended his hand to his female, trying to conceal his disappointment. “Are you ready, my dragyra? Do you remember what to say?” It was an unnecessary question—Jordan had a mind like a steel trap. Just the same, they needed to keep their stories straight in the presence of other curious humans.
Jordan nodded soberly. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
And with that, Zane raised his free hand, clutched his sapphire, and opened the portal.
Chapter Nineteen
Macy Wilson snuggled beneath the heated white blanket that Patty, her friendly nurse, had given her. She glanced at the IV taped to her inner arm and felt grateful that the preliminaries were over. Macy detested IVs, actually needles of any kind, but Patty had been pretty good at inserting it, and now the worst part was over.
Feeling more bored than anxious, she stared at the large white clock on the wall and frowned. It was already 7:45 AM, and Jordan wasn’t there yet.
What in the world was going on?
Not only had Jordan failed to call her that morning, but she hadn’t responded to any of Macy’s texts over the past twenty-four hours, and Macy was beginning to worry: It just wasn’t like Jordan to blow someone off—let alone, her BFF—and especially not at a time like this.
Switching her attention to the large plastic bag that contained her cell phone, her purse, and her clothes, Macy thought about her mom: Luckily, Karen Wilson had driven Macy to the hospital, and she was going to stick around all day—she would be able to keep an eye on Macy’s stuff.
Well, as soon as she got back from the cafeteria.
After watching her mom fidget with just about everything in the room, pace back and forth across the small, sterile cubicle a half-dozen times, Macy had finally convinced Nervous-Nelly to go take a walk…get a cup of tea at the hospital diner. To put it bluntly, Karen had been driving Macy crazy. She needed a much more calming influence at a time like this—say, someone just like Jordan.
A cheeky, conspiratorial smile edged along the curves of her mouth, and her stomach did a nervous little flip as she switched her attention, yet again, to her handsome surgeon, Dr. Kyle Parker.
Talk about a calming influence!
Talk about a gorgeous, blue-eyed Adonis, with a headful of silky black hair, who had stared at her just a little too long, touched her just a little too gently, and pitched his voice just a little too in
timately…for coincidence.
Talk about bedside manner…
There was no getting around it—Dr. Kyle Parker was interested.
In Macy!
She shivered beneath the otherwise warm blanket and chuckled beneath her breath.
How had that happened?
When had that happened?
Her excitement was almost too great to contain.
And then she glanced downward and cringed. The hospital gown she was wearing was thin, green, and ugly: not to mention, she had a plastic bag on her head; she had forgotten to paint her toenails; and her breath was moderately questionable. After all, she hadn’t been allowed to eat or drink anything since seven o’clock the night before, and she might have been too sparing with the toothpaste. Hell, she thought, feeling incredibly self-conscious, she’d be lucky if Dr. Parker still looked her way by the time this surgery was over—by the time he had seen pretty much all of what she had to offer. Ugh. Ugh. And ugh.
Still, she reasoned, preferring to be more positive, there had been something hard to name in his voice—a smooth, masculine drawl, something sensual, something implicit—as he’d cleared his throat and whispered, “If you need anything, Macy—anything at all—you just let me know, okay?”
She bit down on her bottom lip.
For whatever reason, Dr. Parker didn’t seem to care about her toenails or the baggie on her head…
For whatever reason, the man was attracted to Macy!
She took a deep breath and glanced at the clock, a second time. She couldn’t wait to tell Jordan about this recent twist of fate, but where the hell was she? No sooner had she conjured the thought than she heard a familiar voice outside the thick blue-and-white curtain: “Knock-knock. Can I come in?”
Jordan!
“Yes,” Macy called, glancing toward the flimsy partition with excitement. “Come in.” She practically wriggled like a child with a newfound toy, sitting straighter in the mechanical bed.
Jordan’s elegant hand pulled back the curtains, and she sauntered in with a smile.
“Where have you been!” Macy demanded, and then her mouth dropped open and her eyes bulged out of her head.
Hell, she may have actually drooled…
Two positively breathtaking men—with ungodly perfect bodies, chiseled features, like Roman gods, and the swagger of Navy SEALs—followed Jordan into the cubicle. They were both wearing sunglasses—which was curious, since they were also indoors—and the heat and power that radiated around them almost made Macy leap from her bed (IV pole, be damned) and duck under the nearest partition.
“What the hell?” She spoke the thought aloud.
Jordan took a deep breath and smiled. “Sorry I’m late, Mace; and sorry I’ve been MIA.” She glanced over her shoulder to regard the tallest of the two, the one with gorgeous dark-brown hair; broad, powerful shoulders; and thighs that looked like he could do squats while lifting an entire weight-bench. “This is Zane Saphyrius.” She turned her attention to a divine masculine specimen with gorgeous dirty-blond locks. “And this is his partner, Axe.” She swallowed nervously, and Macy knew right away that there was something serious going on, in spite of Jordan’s valiant attempt at casualness. “Remember the other day when I mentioned that there was something happening at work—something creepy that came up that I had to take care of?”
“Yeah,” Macy said, her voice registering her hesitation.
“Well,” Jordan explained, “turns out that thing had a slight element of danger attached to it, so I now have a couple of bodyguards.” She quickly held up her hand to dispel any fears. “But don’t worry. I’m fine. Truly, I am. I’m just going to be hanging out with Mutt and Jeff for a while.” She crooked her thumb at the Navy SEALs, and the dark-haired man’s savagely beautiful mouth turned down into a frown.
Whoa, Macy thought, getting the distinct impression that he didn’t find Jordan’s comment funny—in the least. And as for the dirty blond? He looked like he could stop an oncoming truck with the palm of his hand, wrench the bolts out of the tires while he whistled, and then chew on them for distraction, without breaking a tooth.
Okay, Macy surmised: So why are you lying to me, Jordan? And what are you leaving out? But now was not the time, or the place, to confront her. “So is that why you haven’t returned any of my calls?” she asked, trying desperately to keep her eyes fixed on Jordan.
It wasn’t an easy task…
Jordan winced, and the look of apology that flashed through her eyes was truly painful to witness. “Oh my God, Macy. I am so, so sorry.” She dropped her head in shame. “And I told you I would be there if you needed me. To call me anytime…”
“Hey,” Macy said, pitching her voice in a no-nonsense tone. “If you’ve been in trouble…in danger…then no worries, Jordan. It’s okay. Seriously. I’m just glad you’re safe.” She raised her eyebrows in question. What the heck was going on?
Jordan shook her head. “I’ll tell you more about it later. Honestly, I will. Right now, I just want to hear more about you. How are you feeling? How are you doing? I see you’ve already got your IV—did it hurt going in?” She made an unpleasant face, scrunching up her nose. “I know how much you hate needles.” And then she quickly changed the subject. “Are you ready for the surgery—to be rid of the unwanted cargo?” She winked, clearly trying to cheer Macy up.
Macy hesitated to answer.
She wasn’t sure she wanted to change the subject so quickly, and Jordan was clearly nervous—all over the map, in fact—changing subjects way too rapidly. But Mutt and Jeff, as Jordan had so affectionately called them, were looking distinctly out of place, their large, intimidating bodies filling up the tiny cubicle; their deep, even breaths sucking all the oxygen out of the room; and their curious, covert sunglasses making them look like high-strung spies.
She needed to calm this crew.
Restore some normalcy to the room if she could.
“Well,” she said, with an airy breath, “you look beautiful as always.” Her eyes swept over Jordan’s summer dress. “Breezy, stylish, and ready for the day.”
The dark-haired male glanced at Jordan, and despite the concealing shades, Macy shivered inside. That look. That heat. That obvious…possession. There was nothing professional—or strictly protective—in that glance.
What. The. Hell. Was. Going. On?
She smiled and patted the side of the bed. “Come. Sit beside me.” She giggled. “Hold my hand.” She wished she could tell her bestie all about the fine Doctor Parker, but the conversation would have to wait. “Maybe we can watch some TV until it’s time for my sleepy meds.”
Jordan nodded, seeming relieved by the offer. She strolled across the room, took a seat on the edge of the bed, and grasped Macy’s hand, gripping it far too tight for the situation.
Hmm.
As the bodyguards found two chairs and dragged them toward the back of the space, Macy began to feel more and more on edge.
She couldn’t pinpoint the reason or identify the origin—her best friend being in danger, notwithstanding—but there was just something almost fatalistic in the room.
A sense of looming dread—or impending doom.
That feeling people get when the hairs on the back of the neck stand up because they sense they’re in mortal danger. For lack of a better comparison: the recognition of prey in the presence of a predator.
Macy squeezed Jordan’s hand in return.
It was no longer clear who was comforting whom.
f
Jordan felt like a total jerk.
Other than a short text here and there, on Saturday, saying “how are you” and “I’m okay,” she hadn’t been there for Macy over the weekend, and now, she was making matters worse.
What had she been thinking?
Or course, she also knew the drill—what Zane would do eventually.
At some point, before the day was over, probably in Macy’s recovery room, he would make some feeble excuse to saunter to the side
of her bed, place his hand on the top of her forehead—or remove his shades to reveal his otherworldly, hypnotic eyes—and implant whatever impressions, memories, or story that he chose: Macy would wake up from her surgery forgetting that she had ever seen the Dragyr: Zane and Axe. She would buy—hook, line, and sinker—the story that Jordan had taken a couple weeks off to reboot and recharge, beginning Wednesday, after her jury selection on Tuesday. And then, slowly, over time, Zane would help Jordan explain things to Macy, leaving out anything that was too hard to digest, replacing truth with fantasy when necessary, and filling in the holes with things that Macy would automatically believe—because Zane had told her to believe them.
What kind of friendship was that?
Was it even fair to continue, going forward?
Jordan sighed, feeling the full weight of her fate upon her shoulders, understanding, yet again, just how dire her circumstances were, how desperately she needed to find an out-clause.
Licking her bottom lip, she thought about her cell phone, tucked safely away in her purse, and prayed that there had been a strong Wi-Fi signal in the hospital parking lot before the three of them had entered the building. She had scripted a text to Dan before they’d left the lair—earlier, while she was still in the bathroom—and she had subsequently placed it on “auto send, then delete” just to be safe.
In other words, as long as her cell was working properly, the message would go through the moment the device came in contact with a signal, and then the text would be promptly erased.
In truth, Dan could be reading the message right now:
Hi there. I know I’m breaking all the rules—the rules I insisted on you keeping. Not only did I send an email on Friday night, but now I’m sending this. The truth is, I need your help, and I don’t know anyone else I can turn to. I have jury selection in Judge Stanley’s court on Tuesday. Division B-9 at 10 AM. I will be there a half hour early, and I will leave a letter addressed to you with his clerk. Please pick it up before 10 AM, leave the courthouse, then read it—this will give you time to digest the contents and to choose a course of action. Please do NOT do anything while I’m in court. I know this makes no sense right now, but it will. I promise. Oh, and one more thing—AND IT’S VERY IMPORTANT—do not try to contact me before you read the letter. Do not try to find me, speak to me, or approach me in any way! Just pick up the letter, follow my instructions, and everything will be clear.